


Inside the Garden

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, NSFW, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: Lucien finds Elain in her garden to tell them guests have arrived, and she decides to give him a very suggestive talk about how flowers reproduce. Then some things happen in the garden before they leave it to greet their guests.Teaser: “Do you know how flowers reproduce, Lucien?” Her voice comes out like honey, sweet, smooth, and genuine. She always takes him by surprise, so easily does she slip back into the Elain that he had learned about from Feyre. The Elain that everyone thought was so easy to decipher. That is not the Elain that stands before him now. He recognizes that there is always much more going on behind her smiles, but he can’t allow himself to imagine what she intends, not right now…





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Elucien smut week prompt: inappropriate timing. 
> 
> @blxckbeak made a moodboard to go along with this fic! (link to come)
> 
> Thanks to @illyriantremors for letting me talk through some of this with her. You’re the best!

When Lucien strolls into Elain’s garden, he searches for her for a while, winding in and out of the hedges that she has grown over the years. They are tall enough to hide most males, not to mention his mate. He finds her at the end of one of the most secluded paths, and he smiles at the familiar sight of Elain crouched in front of some flowers. This is one of many dead ends in the garden, and it is surrounded on three sides by the greenery, with a stone bench flanked by tall white lilies. He wants to leave her alone, to let her enjoy this time outdoors, but neither of them have the luxury of privacy right now, as Feyre and Nesta have just arrived with their mates in tow. 

“Elain, dear,” he calls out, hands clasped behind his back. “Your sisters are here. We should go and meet them.” He reaches out through their bond, content to find that she is feeling as peaceful as she looks, but there is something else there, too. Something that indicates that she is trying to hide something from him. It took him a long time to recognize what this anomaly in the bond means, and why she is hiding something now, when she seems so content, is beyond him. 

When she stands and turns to look at him, she is holding a perfect white lily in one hand. Her pale pink dress is light for the weather, and the skirts are blowing softly around her legs. She still prefers human clothing, even after all these years, and the flowing skirts that billow out from her tight bodice suit her. A tendril of sun-lightened hair has come loose from her chignon, and rests on her breast where it mingles with the laces at the front of her dress. He would be content standing here, watching her like this, but moves to approach her. 

She looks at Lucien, so perfectly put together, his red hair in a braid down his back, and smirks to herself. She has no intention of running to see her sisters, dear though they are. No, instead she wants to take advantage of having her mate to herself for a few more moments. 

“They made it? Aren’t they a bit early?” She is in no hurry to move from her spot by the lilies and she speaks quietly, knowing he will come close enough to hear her. 

“A bit, but their rooms are ready. They are waiting in the front sitting room.” He extends a hand to her when he gets close enough, but she makes no move to take it. He waits for a moment, then he reaches up instead, running his thumb over her slightly redden cheek. She tilts her head, leaning into his palm before he lets his hand fall back down to his side. 

“I don’t think we should make them wait, Elain. You know how your sisters can be.” He wonders to himself why he is trying to convince her to go when he doesn’t want to leave the secluded corner himself. 

She continues to hold the lily in one hand, at the level of her chest, and it brushes against the bare skin above her bodice. Lucien’s eye goes to the flower, to the pale skin it is resting against. A wave goes through him at the thought of that skin, at the slight sensation of the petals on her breast that she sends through the bond. The texture of the petals, though delicate and soft, is no match for the skin it brushes, her skin being infinitely more precious to him. He blinks, reminding himself of why he is there. He knows she sent the feeling of the flower on her skin to him intentionally, and he tries to ignore what it implies. 

Her free hand strokes the petals as she speaks. 

“Do you know how flowers reproduce, Lucien?” Her voice comes out like honey, sweet, smooth, and genuine. She always takes him by surprise, so easily does she slip back into the Elain that he had learned about from Feyre. The Elain that everyone thought was so easy to decipher. That is not the Elain that stands before him now. He recognizes that there is always much more going on behind her smiles, but he can’t allow himself to imagine what she intends, not right now… 

He looks at her quizzically. “I’m sorry, dearest, I don’t. Perhaps you could tell me another time?” The pieces she has given him haven’t quite come together yet – the strange hidden thing he sensed in the bond, the lily, the talk of reproduction, the hesitation to see her sisters - but he doesn’t want to push. His hands rest behind his back again, waiting. 

Elain stands in place, taking in the way the sun burns on his hair, the erect posture he maintains, as if propriety were a concern in this secluded spot of their home. As if that would dissuade her from her plans. She looks back down at the flower. Her fingers stroke the pure white, and her gaze is resting on it when she begins speaking again, clearly intent on ignoring his attempts to get her to move from the spot. 

“Flowers have reproductive organs. Like us.” She smiles sweetly, still looking down at the flower. “They are all very different, depending on the plant, of course. They might be small, or difficult to access, and sometimes very obvious. One might even say large, in some cases.” 

“Elain, I think this is maybe not the most appropriate time for… a lesson.” She has begun sending other pieces in through the bond – a soft sigh, his thumb brushing her again in a much more intimate way, her lips on his skin, the smell of his own desire and the effect it has on her. Lucien swallows loudly, the pieces finally beginning to fall into place. 

She continues, ignoring the implications behind his words, the subtle reminder that her sisters are waiting. “A lesson? Lucien, my love, I think you’ll find what I have to say very, very fascinating. In fact, I think you’ll soon forget anything going on beyond these green walls.” She gestures around them, reminding him of how secluded they are. 

He coughs uncomfortably, shifting his weight as he watches her fingers stroke the smooth petals. He feels a tightness in his stomach, even as he tries to suppress it, tries to ignore the way that her fingers move, to stop himself from imagining those fingers going to work on him, undoing the laces on his shirt and brushing lower, until… He can’t tear his eyes away from where the petals brush against the swell of her breasts. 

“Lilies are very interesting, actually,” she continues. “I’ve been trying to promote their sexual reproduction, taking bits from one, trying to cross it with another. It’s what I prefer, myself. Sexual reproduction, that is. It’s much more interesting than asexual.” She looks back up at him, moving the flower to her face so that she can smell it. 

“Elain,” he says, not for the last time struggling to get the word out. “What…” 

“I have to be very careful,” she continues. “There are so many parts, you see. I have to have a delicate touch with the male reproductive organs. They are so _sensitive_. And the female organs… they require some finesse as well. But I think you knew that already.” She looks up at him and giggles. She seems to be absently caressing the flower, but he knows that every movement of her fingers is calculated. His mind goes back to when they had first mated, to when they had first been together, how she had been then. It seems like lifetimes ago, compared to the playful composure she maintains now. 

“And on the male organ,” she touches one of the small points in the center of the flower lightly before continuing, yellow pollen coming away on her fingers, “one finds this.” She holds her hand up to show him before brushing her fingers across the curve of her breasts, which, he has not failed to notice, have been pushed to straining against her corset. A slight trail of gold is now highlighting the rise and fall of her chest, and he can’t keep his eye away from it as she sidles closer to him, taking her time, until they are a breath apart. 

“Of course, none of this sounds like nearly as much fun as the way we go about _our_ business,” she says, pressing herself into him and crushing the flower between them. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Elain…” he tries to say, but as soon as he does she stands on her toes to reach up to him, pulling his bottom lip in between her teeth to bring him down to her level before she kisses him fully. Her tongue enters his mouth almost immediately, and all thoughts of protest he had are gone. The lily is still in her hand, the hand that is now running over his hair, her fingers forcing their way through the strands and pulling them loose from his braid. The last thing on his mind now is whether that pollen is going to get on his clothing, how quickly he will be able to get all the knots out of his hair that she is undoubtedly going to leave. 

He begins to pull away, to try to speak again, when she presses a finger to his lips. “Shhhh…” she says simply. That’s all she needs to say, now. Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, she turns him and presses her hands against his chest until he is forced to move and the backs of his legs bump into the stone bench. She pushes him once more until he has no choice but to sit in front of her. 

Elain nudges his legs apart with her knees, making space for herself between them. Looking down, she takes his head into her hands and kisses him hungrily, sloppily, letting herself moan so loudly that Lucien silently sends thanks to the architects of the house that the front sitting room is far, far away from Elain’s garden. 

Grabbing his hands, she runs them over the bodice of her dress, his hands feeling the boning of her corset, and with their fingers entwined she undoes the laces holding her in. As soon as it is pulled apart, freeing her, she takes his hands and guides them under the soft cotton that had been layered underneath, throwing her head back and making a contented sound. 

“Elain,” he manages to say again, his hands working her soft skin, running his thumbs over her nipples that were already hard before he had touched them. 

“Yes, Lucien,” she asks with a satisfied sigh, looking back down at him. He shakes his head, forgetting what he had wanted to say. Instead, he pulls the solid bodice of her dress apart in a quick, smooth motion so he can see her bared before him, the laces of her chemise undone with the same movement. 

He is still for a moment, her delicate skin that would normally never be bared outdoors even paler in the bright sunlight. The broken flower is still in her hand, and seeing his gaze, she tears a petal off and brushes it across her lips, down her throat, between her breasts and down to her stomach. The petal then makes its way to him, where she repeats the motions, running its silky texture over his lips and down, down, down, until he grabs her wrist to stop her progress. 

They gaze at each other for a moment, taking in the skin they normally only see in the shadowed recesses of their bedroom, between silken sheets and illuminated by firelight. Now, seeing each other like this, clothes slowly being peeled away out in the full sun, they are reinvigorated. 

He pulls her to him, taking one of her breasts into his mouth and groaning into her skin. She whispers his name into his ear, running her fingers through his hair, finally taking the piece of leather off the end of his braid and loosening the strands from each other. She will help him fix it later, but right now she wants it twisted in her fingers. 

Now that she has him this unleashed, she has to do very little in order to get what she wants. Pulling up the skirts of her dress, she moves to straddle him on the bench. He braces his hands behind her for support, and her hands and lips are everywhere – in his hair, inside of his shirt, on his neck, and he groans her name, a plea to continue though he knows they shouldn’t be doing this now. 

As she kisses him she moves her hips on his, grinding into him. She reaches down to palm him over his pants, undoing his laces at the same time. She is pleased to find him straining against his pants, that he so obviously wants her, despite his earlier protests. 

With one hand he reaches around and buries his hand in her skirts, feeling a surprising lack of undergarments and growling at the thought that she had perhaps been planning this all along. He thrusts a finger inside of her, beginning his usual practice of making sure that she comes over and over, and she writhes on him a moment before shaking her head. 

“There’s no time for that. Pick me up,” she demands. The hard stone of the bench is digging into her shins and there isn’t enough around them for her to grab onto, not when she starts moving on him the way she really wants to. “On the ground, now,” she says into his neck, breathing hard with restraint. 

He obliges her, taking advantage of the opportunity to grab her rear before lowering her down to the ground and bracing himself above her. Her skirts fall around her in a pile and she reaches for him, guiding him into her. Despite his earlier hesitation, he grabs her wrists, making her wait. 

“Elain,” he says, holding her wrists between them. “Why the hurry?” He is teasing her now, turning her hesitation around on her and forcing her to wait for what she wants. She giggles but it ends with a sigh of pleasure when he lowers his mouth to her breast again, pushing aside her skirts so he can touch her in the way he wants to. She cries his name again and again as he thrusts his fingers into her, and before she realizes what he is doing he has moved between her thighs to taste her. If he had thought the sight of her breasts bared to the elements was intoxicating before, he is driven mad at this now – his mate laid out in the grass, skirts around her hips, her pale legs leading to her center that he has seen hundreds of times, but never like this. 

He sends this image to her through the bond, the love and lust overwhelming her until she threads her fingers through his hair to pull him up to hover over her again. Knowing she is ready, he finally gives her what she was after, thrusting into her and beginning a steady rhythm they have never experienced here, in her garden. He whispers her name into her neck, praising her, his mate, who has never failed to surprise him. 

As she comes, Elain grabs the ground next to her, digging into the earth with her fingers, ripping up grass as the waves of pleasure run through her. Lucien groans into her neck as she arches into him, neither of them caring that they might be heard as they cry out, that in a distant room of their house, conversation might be coming to an awkward halt. 

Brushing grass and dirt from her hair, Lucien looks down at his mate. They slowly come down from their high, but he stays inside of her for a moment longer. 

Her breath brushes his face and she traces his cheekbone with her thumb, saying “I knew you’d enjoy my lesson.” He throws his head back and laughs so loudly that she can’t help but joining him, and they know there is no hope now that they have not been heard. 

He finally peels himself off her, helping her stand and brushing her skirts back down around her legs. They help each other dress again, trying to brush away any evidence that they have literally just been rolling around in the grass. There are slight grass stains on the back of Elain’s dress, and she just hopes that she can manage to keep her back to their guests until she has a chance to change. 

When they are appropriate for company, Lucien speaks. “Should we go see your sisters now? I hope you have an excuse ready to go, they’ve been waiting.” 

Elain blinks sweetly at him. “They were early. I wasn’t ready.” They walk back to the house, hand-in-hand, and she leans her head on his shoulder. She realizes that this plan did not allow her time to clean up before speaking with her sisters, but the combination of his and her slickness between her legs only has her biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning wickedly, before she realizes the scents they must be carrying into the house with them. She hesitates, telling Lucien that she needs to change her clothing before she goes to see them. Giving him a look that has him quickly understanding what she needs to do, he lets her go and proceeds to inform everyone that she will arrive shortly. 

When Elain enters the sitting room, everyone stands to greet her. Apologies are made and greetings exchanged. No mention is made of any noises that may have been coming from the garden, which Lucien is grateful for. Knowing Cassian and Rhysand, he is surprised, frankly, but figures it is for Elain’s benefit. 

Feyre moves to Elain, taking her sister’s hands into her own before placing a kiss on her cheeks. 

Nesta is by their sides, and she is the first to exclaim at the sight of Elain’s hands. “Elain, your hands are covered in dirt, what have you been doing,” she asks, her expression half question, half accusation. 

Elain silently curses herself. She had changed her dressed, cleaned herself, and rearranged her chignon, but her hands… she had been rather enthusiastic when clutching the ground for purchase as she came. 

“Elain, dearest,” Feyre cries out. She pulls Elain’s hands closer, inspecting them. “You should really wear gloves while you are gardening. It’s under your nails and everything…” Her voice fades away as she begins to put the pieces together. 

Elain blushes slightly, looking over to Lucien without thinking, and an awkward silence reigns. 

“Feyre,” Rhys starts. “I think your sister knows her business. When it comes to gardening, that is.” Feyre nods in agreement, letting her sister’s hands drop. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Elain tries to avoid any discussion of gardening or the outdoors, though she feels a rush of pleasure and a slight blush creep up her neck any time Lucien’s attention goes to her hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! I haven't written anything for these two before, so I hope it turned out. Also come visit me on [tumblr](http://abookandacoffee.tumblr.com/).


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